


Eponymous

by witchsoup



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, F/M, Harry has a man bun I feel like that's also important, I can't do fluff without a little bit of grit?, M/M, Mention of Domestic Violence, Model!Draco, Multi, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties, Teacher!Hermione, Wedding Fluff, mention of terrorism, mention of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 07:35:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11054316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchsoup/pseuds/witchsoup
Summary: She’s trusted to rein in the best man, though her attendance, apparently, is not required. Her absence is, in fact, encouraged. For whatever reason, the sad stuffed stag's head mounted on the wall only cements Harry's decision.





	Eponymous

**Author's Note:**

> Exams are finished and the summer job is about to begin but at least I'll have evenings and weekends to get back to fic. This is my way of dusting off the cobwebs before I get cracking on my WIPs. Also there are a lot of things that are Implied in this fic, to the extent I might have to continue this as a series. This was supposed to have a secret pairing, but I didn't think it was fair not to tag it.

Sirius isn’t _narcissistic,_ per se.

The father-son snapchat streaks documented painstakingly on Harry’s cloud are a monument to Sirius’ signature smoulder - the one he claims almost made it into a Moschino advert in the nineties. London streets, artfully blurred and wittily captioned, are a shrine to their particular brand of humour, interspersed with acts of derring-do as Harry captures one spectacular tumble after another on the slopes of Alpe D’Huez.

Every spare surface in the house is littered with a mish-mash of cheap Ikea frames. Harry raises his arms in triumph, drowned by a Chelsea strip on Sirius’ shoulders, cheeks painted and flush with excitement. Ron and Hermione grimace in twin mortification, his arm around her bare shoulders the night of their prom, resplendent with finger sandwiches and the greatest hits of the Sugababes. The puppies, in a time lapse spanning the breadth of the ground floor staircase, grow from their pink and puffy-eyed beginnings to adulthood. Harry grins as he’s dragged along the garden path by the force of the numerous leads clipped to his waist.

Shaky home videos stamped with the dates of every consecutive Christmas from when Harry was two years old are carefully labelled and placed in the covers of old Disney classics they’ve long since upgraded, and the old video player whines its way through every Christmas Eve celebration Hermione can remember.

In the library, on top of the beloved piano, sits the only photo in the house that shows both of Harry’s parents in the same frame. In front of a registry office in Clapham, Lily smiles indulgently at the camera. She clutches a bouquet of daisies to her prominent belly, a blush coloured satin confection skirting her swollen ankles. James, sprawled on the steps, clutches a cigarette to his mouth, eyes crinkled in half a grin as Remus holds his lighter out of arm’s reach.

Their likenesses are twenty-one and twenty, respectively, and they have eighteen months to live.

* * *

Clutching rolls of stiff, glossy print paper to her chest, Hermione presses the toe of her boot against the kickplate.

Hands curled inside the sleeves of his ubiquitous Gryffindor hoodie, Harry trails behind, eyes puffy with sleep. Though the morning is brisk, with biting wind and bright, pale sunlight, there are no windows in the bar, only fluorescent panels casting harsh, unnaturally bright light on the scruffy decor. Sterile enough to be out of place, but not enough to fool you in the pretence of respectability. Each step causes the sole of her boot to stick to the tiles, and the scent in the air oscillates between notes of vomit and industrial strength cleaner. Generically citrus tones are less a smell, more a burning sensation inside her nose.

She’s trusted to rein in the best man, though her attendance, apparently, is not required. Her absence is, in fact, encouraged. For whatever reason, the sad stuffed stag's head mounted on the wall only cements Harry's decision. 

Harry bends over the bar, feet scuffing the flagstones, tapping one hand against his pocket and pulling out his phone, presumably to check the guest list for numbers once more. Hermione knows there are twenty-two in the Going column, with only one artfully monochrome profile picture listed as Invited.

She digs inside her handbag, the same bottomless pit she’s carried since she was fifteen and begged her parents to buy it for her birthday, soft brown leather scarred from years of misuse. Brandishing a thin slab of Blu-Tac Hermione slaps it onto the bar beside Harry’s freshly acquired tumbler of whisky.

Eyeballing him, she raises one eyebrow in irritable slow motion.

“I have to taste the signature drink, Hermione. It’s from the year they graduated Hogwarts, I have to check it’s not, you know, gone off-”

“That’s _wine,_ Harry. You know that, you drank enough of the stuff at Bill’s wedding.”

“Gabrielle was teaching me about the bouquet,” he sniffs.

“You’re lucky,” says Hermione. “Ginny still believes that’s all she taught you.”

Striding across the room, only slightly impeded by the stickiness of the floor, she grabs the first of the prints, depicting Sirius and a ten-year-old Harry in matching ties at a Metropolitan Police fundraiser, pausing to scan the room for the best position to hang it.

Harry scrapes his hair back, tying it into a bun at the back of his head. To Molly Weasley’s dismay it’s long enough to rival Sirius’, and dark enough that despite Harry’s darker skin and green eyes, he could be Sirius’ biological son.

“You have to be nice to me. I’m an integral cog in the machine that is this wedding.”

“And I’m not?” She gestures with another roll of prints around the bar. “I may as well have been made best man since I did _all the work._ Not only that, I chose the bridesmaids’ dresses, and the flowers, and I found that collector so that Sirius could live out his lifelong dream of pulling up to his wedding on an old Harley- ”

“Not just any old Harley, Hermione.” Harry’s expression is pained. “Anyway, Ginny told me she chose the dresses.”

“No. Ginny wanted Vivienne Westwood to custom make the three of us tuxedos. Don’t ask how, apparently the Blacks have connections. I steered her away from that particular train wreck.”

* * *

As the youngest member of staff, she's not usually privy to the sight of Minerva McGonagall in anything that reveals even a sliver of collarbone. Severus Snape without safety goggles perched on his birdlike nose is even more intimidating: like Medusa, anyone in his direct line of sight tends to turn to stone, or similar. 

Neville refuses to even apply for the Biology post. 

As of this afternoon’s final bell the headmaster still resolutely claimed he’d be leaving for a conference in Oxford on the first train out. He had, however, graciously offered to foot the bill for the single staff night out they’ve managed all year. The fact Hermione had spied the brochure for a couples’ retreat in the Highlands on his desk, along with Gellert’s monogrammed suitcase in the social science staff room, had nothing to do with it.

Chosen only after a blazing row over French versus Italian, Hermione is relieved the restaurant is small enough that she's jammed into a corner with Remus. His chivalry ensures her protection from the ramblings of Horace Slughorn, who even nine years later loves to tell the story of how he nurtured Hermione to prominence.

The acclaimed dissertation she completed in her final year at university is, the way he tells it, practically his own work. He tends to forget the fact he knows next to nothing about mathematics: their conversation, singular, on the topic, lasted less than two minutes and largely involved Hermione wielding a whiteboard marker in the throes of A-level revision.

They’ve managed to navigate two hours of dinner, washed down with four bottles of fairly unimpressive red wine, and she’s almost finished her half of the chocolate lava cake - Remus was on the edge of an existential crisis over the choice between that and the chocolate brownie when Hermione stepped in to help - when she hears the indignant rasp of the maitre d’, freshly returned from his fag break.

At the sound of the commotion, their table falls almost silent, save for Hagrid who continues to sing Flower of Scotland at a marginally more discreet level. Hermione went to Cambridge. She’s met the kind of people who graduate with a degree in Land Economy. No matter how upper-class Hogwarts is, she doesn’t think they should be entertaining such a thing in the curriculum, let alone have Rubeus Hagrid teaching it. 

Recognising a familiar voice, Hermione turns to gape at the sight of a dripping wet Harry Potter, swaying in the doorway. Remus immediately rises from his seat, grabbing his napkin, but Hermione lays a hand on his shoulder.

"No, no, honestly, sit, you have half a brownie left, let me- Remus, I won't say it again, _sit down,"_ she hisses. Smiling tightly at Minerva whose mouth is pinched in irritation, she hoists herself out of her seat, narrowly avoiding tripping over Severus' long coat.

Eyes wide and mouth set in a hard line she crosses the restaurant, grabbing Harry by the elbow and wrinkling her nose at the smell of spirits on his breath. He begins to say her name, but she silences him with her best teacher look, guiding him around the corner to the toilets.

"I had one job, Hermione." Harry's lip begins to tremble, but he visibly pulls himself together the moment Hermione crosses her arms. "You said don't lose him, not like at his fortieth, and I-" He sniffs. "I only went to the bar, he seemed occupied with the stripper, he was telling her about the wedding favours. He was trying to pin one to her bra, I was only gone for a minute-”

"When?" Hermione unfolds her arms, digs deep into the pocket of her woollen dress and checks the time.

"About an hour ago. Ginny's coming to pick me up in the car, we're going to drive out to the farm, Regulus isn’t answering his phone, think he’s asleep, but Dad has keys-”

"I'll go to the house, I assume none of them were sober enough to make it all the way to Knightsbridge. Let alone find a taxi who'd take them," she snorts. 

Ron's traditional response to high-pressure situations is to stop for a kebab.

"Frank's heading up a couple of people, they're trawling bars, and Marlene's husband called Moody half an hour ago, but he hasn't heard from him since last week," Harry says, eyes shifting. "He wouldn't let us put out a call to the officers on duty."

Hermione looks outraged, and smacks Harry on the arm with her phone.

"Sirius Black is not a _criminal._ We don't need them turning up to arrest their superior officer for being drunk and disorderly."

Hermione had scoured his Facebook friends' list, and thoroughly vetted Harry’s attempt at a guest list. Sirius Black doesn't need any incentive to try and out drink a rabble of twenty-five-year-olds, especially the night before his wedding.

“Look, I need you to babysit someone for me.” At her exasperated look, he grabs hold of her hands, eyes pleading. “Please Hermione, Dad was so happy to see him.”

“I don’t need some drunken old letch slowing me down, Harry, I was in the middle of a night out too-”

“He’s not old, he’s one of the cousins. God, Dad nearly cried when he saw him, but that might have been the lime juice, we were doing body shots-”

“Harry,” she warns.

“Look, he keeps threatening to go back to his bloody hotel. I need to salvage this night. I’ll never live it down if I don't.”

Harry snakes his way around a waitress laden with plates, snatching up Hermione's enormous winter coat from the rack. He holds it out for her to slip on. His hero worship extends to emulating Sirius' collection of leather jackets, and while only a sliver of Hermione's face can be seen when she pulls up her hood, at least she'll be dry while Harry’s hair hangs in wet ropes across his face, snagging in his glasses.

She waves her goodbyes to the professors, promising to find them when she’s finished. Outside, the rain is coming down practically sideways, and the wind howls about her as Hermione clutches her handbag to her side. 

There's a taxi idling on the kerb, and Harry embraces her before shouting over the sound of the wind.

"His name’s, fuck, Drogo, or something. Some Game of Thrones shit. Weird accent. Posh. You're a lifesaver."

He presses a sloppy kiss to her forehead - impeded, as always, by her mane of hair, before pushing her gently towards the car.

The moment she opens the door it's buffeted by the wind, and as she slips inside she struggles to close it. A man's arm reaches across her, grabs the top of the handle and heaves, pressing her back against the seat. When the door is finally closed she pulls down her hood, eyes widening at the price on the meter, wondering if the driver takes card.

Across the seat, the man stares down his nose at her. Self-consciously, she pats her hair, pushing it behind one ear to have it spring free even before her hand falls back to her lap.

"Knightsbridge, please."

Her mind flashes back to his Facebook page. Draco Black, private profile, very few pictures: mainly of views from plane windows and high buildings. She turns to smile at him, offers her hand before wiping it down on her equally soaked coat.

"I'm Hermione Granger. I'm the one who sent the email about the wedding presents, the link for donations? You're Draco Black, am I saying that right? Like the constellation?"

"Malfoy."

"Pardon?"

"My surname is Malfoy, not Black. Sirius added my private page. Family and friends only."

His voice, though decidedly crisp and polished, has a quality to it she can't place.

"How are you enjoying London? Sirius told me you and your mother are staying at the Savoy? My parents took me there for my graduation breakfast, they had the most heavenly eggs-"

"Really, there's no need to make small talk. My idiot cousin shouldn’t be too difficult to find. I'm sure that within the hour I'll be back downing shots in a depressing little pub, and you'll be back... watching Antiques Roadshow, or whatever it was you were doing."

Though he can't see her clothes under her coat, he eyes her practical shoes and disastrous hair before pulling out his phone and rapidly typing a quick succession of messages, phone trilling every few moments as he receives replies.

Discreetly, she does the same, turning her screen away from his view and entering his name into her search bar.

So, he's a model.

Why doesn't that surprise her? Of course she knows about Narcissa, the estranged and beautiful widow. Andromeda’s ‘bitch sister, no, Bella is not even Bella’s responsibility, she can at least blame the genes, Narcissa is just stone fucking cold’ - Sirius’ cousin, secluded in the south of France with her little princeling. Of course, she was around Harry’s house enough after school that she’s seen Sirius without a shirt. Bella’s infamous temperament isn’t the only thing that's in the genes.

However, it's safe to say Bella won't be attending her cousin's wedding. She’s a third of the way through her latest prison stint, this time for setting her ex-husband's restaurant on fire.

Though the blue light of the screen throws his face into sharp relief, she can't see any hint of blemish or imperfection. The first suggestion provided in her search reads 'Draco Malfoy hair.' Several American and French tabloids debate, with frequency, whether its translucence comes from a bottle, and lament his breakup with a model girlfriend, dark haired and sharp-eyed in Tom Ford, draped at Draco's side against a Miami skyline.

Astoria Greengrass, tipped to be the new face of Chanel.

Hermione believes the top of her head might just scrape the top of this woman's ribcage, should they stand side by side. Suddenly Draco jerks his head up, makes an impatient sound in the back of his throat, and raps on the driver's partition with two knuckles. 

"Excuse me, you should have taken a left back there. This route is at least ten minutes longer. Turn that music off, while you're at it."

The sound of Smooth Radio, the world's most inoffensive station, comes to an abrupt halt. 

"How do you know London so well?"

"Just because I grew up in France doesn't mean I'm ignorant about the motherland. My mother always dragged me to fashion week, if nothing else."

"Is that where you were spotted?"

His only response is a frown, the lifting of his chin and to turn his face away, peering out of the rain splattered window as street lights flicker in perfect synchronicity, an armada of alien lights, communicating in an unknown code.

"Potter tells me you're a teacher."

Hermione is renowned for being unable to shut up about her job, the school she loved so much she never left.

"Yes," she bleats, unsure whether this is precursor to another offhand insult. "I teach Maths. Your parents attended Hogwarts, isn't that right?"

"All Blacks go to Hogwarts. I'm sure the faculty would change that if they could. From what my mother tells me, Sirius was a little shit."

"Can't say much has changed," she murmurs.

"How did someone like him end up in the police force?"

Her eyes widen. Remus had warned her about Narcissa Malfoy, about how she had run to France after what happened, to the house her mother left her, and how she hadn't even returned for her husband's funeral. Malfoys do not get divorced, he said. A pregnant Narcissa, a fresh ring of bruises around her neck, had boarded a private charter the moment the hospital discharged her. Until Draco was born with blonde hair and his father's grey eyes, she hadn't trusted the police to keep her safe. Her lover died on the ferry to Calais.

Natural causes, they said.

Lucius tried to cut a deal, gave up names and addresses and the true nature of then Foreign Secretary Tom Riddle's true political leanings, and despite his rank, was murdered in prison for his trouble.

"It was James, originally. When they were teenagers Riddle was at the height of popularity, and James went from being one of the most popular boys at Hogwarts to getting harassed in the hallways. One of his cousins was attacked on the way home from prayers.”

She pauses, remembering the day Harry had sat her and Ron down at the tender age of fourteen, the look in his eyes causing even Ron to sit up straight. She remembers how his voice shook and his breath caught as he explained that his parents had been killed in a terrorist attack, a car bomb right outside Scotland Yard.

How the man who planted it had spat foul words in the face of the arresting officer before a second bomb had killed them both.

How he remembered nothing about them.

“At that point, it looked like Riddle was a sure thing in the next general election. Even some of the teachers started giving him detentions for things they’d let Sirius off the hook for, things that Sirius had done, even. James graduated and headed straight for police training, and Sirius went with him."

Draco's blank expression, the slightest inclination of his head, has her lips parted, ready for her words to spill once more.

“We’re here,” he offers instead, to Hermione’s confusion.

Raising his eyebrows, he thrusts his phone in her face, momentarily blinding her.

“Uber.”

Rushing up the steps and splashing through a puddle at the grate, Hermione delves deep into her handbag, rummaging for keys. 

"What the fuck have you got in there?"

Draco's jacket is hoisted up over his head, protecting his perfectly tousled quiff. 

"Give me a light, I can't see a thing!"

The orange light from the street lamps is too weak, and though she scrapes her fingertips along the bottom seam of the bag she's yet to find her keys.

Before she can turn to grab him and have him hold the bag - it may require both hands - he's hunched over her, phone torch in hand. His expensive cologne, one she recognises as having bought for Harry on his twenty-first, assaults her nose. Once it ran out, she hadn't smelled it again for years. She was too embarrassed to even enter the shop with no intention of making a purchase. The shop assistants tended to throw her dirty looks in her high street clothes.

Panicked, she sweeps a couple of tampons that litter the bottom into a corner. Moments later, she holds her keys up triumphantly, her fluffy keyring almost hitting him in the face, a present from Ginny. 

Inside, she automatically reaches for the light switch, calling Sirius' name. 

"I'll look in the bedroom - don't go into the kitchen, he left the radio on for the dogs and they'll just get excited if they see people."

"I... don't do dogs, Granger, don't worry-"

"Just go and sit, look, here's the library, they've got all sorts of old Hogwarts photos in there. I won't be a moment. He promised that if I ever walked in on him naked again he'd pay my bills for a month." She scoffs. "Fingers crossed, right?"

Thundering up the stairs, she ducks into the nearest bathroom, running her hands through her hair and under her eyes, doing her best to wipe away her smudged makeup.

She looks rather like Crookshanks when he's wet from the bath.

"He's not even that good looking. He has a face like a slapped arse, Hermione," she whispers to herself in the mirror.

Even so, she straightens her dress, pinches colour into her cheeks.

Passing Harry's old bedroom, she ducks her head inside just in case, scanning the rumpled bedsheets - unmade for months, now that Harry and Ginny are living in Shoreditch with Luna. The walls are covered, every inch, in Chelsea posters.

As she expects Sirius' room is empty, bed neatly made and champagne sweating in an ice bucket by the window. An envelope, addressed in a cramped, neat hand simply to _Pads,_ has Hermione smiling like an idiot, trailing her fingers across the bookcase, eyes catching on yet another photograph, this time a baby photo of Harry. Picking up the frame, she recognises the garish patterned carpet under baby Harry's feet. Hastily, she places it back down, rushing from the room and almost tripping down the stairs. On entering the library, she sees Draco holding a photograph she knows Sirius hates, but won't dare take down: the Black cousins, hand in hand in their best dress at Ascot.

"I know where he is, only I don’t exactly know where it is, if that makes sense," she rushes out. “But we can take my car.”

Draco remains silent, inspects the piano, idly running a finger along an octave, the sound resonating throughout the room.

Hermione frowns. Her voice turns sarcastic and harsh.

“There’s this ingenious thing on smartphones now, it’s called Google Maps-”

“It’s blowing a gale outside. Trust Sirius to get married in the middle of November, vindictive bastard.”

“We have to go, and we have to go now. Sirius thinks he’s immortal on the best of days, he almost died trying to swim the channel for Terrence Higgins, he’s probably halfway to developing slow hypothermia by now-”

“What the fuck,” Draco spits, “is slow hypothermia.”

“It’s where your body cools down very slowly, and if you don’t warm up just as slowly you can, I don’t know, die, or something, look-”

“Shit, Granger, that is definitely made up.”

“Minerva is a Duke of Edinburgh leader, she knows her, you know, wilderness survival-”

“What the fuck kind of wilderness is there in Britain?”

“Well, there’s… Scotland. It’s can be… boggy, in Scotland,” she offers.

“Boggy,” he deadpans.

She opens her mouth to respond, cheeks pink, when her phone buzzes with a message from Ron: a photo of the twins pressed against the hood of a police car, captioned ‘RIP.’

A groan of frustration escapes her, and she shoves her phone deep into the pocket of her sodden coat, fixing Malfoy with a glare.

“Either you can go back to your fancy fucking hotel and hope to God there’s still a wedding to attend in the morning,” she spits, “or you can help me find the keys to the garage."

“What, can I assume you're going to ride my cousin's motorbike? Some fucking noble steed-”

“Fine, don’t come with me, and I’ll fix this mess, just like I always do. Never mind the fact we’re talking about a grown man - Sirius is forty-five years old! He’s a police officer! He should be the one out looking for me, but no, I’ll go out in the pouring rain and collect his Highness, shall I?”

At that, Draco snatches her keys out of her hand, sneering at her down the length of her novelty bottle opener.

“Get the fuck over yourself, and let’s go and pull my cousin out of whatever ditch he’s stumbled into.”

“It’s not a ditch- it’s, well, a grave.”

At his incredulous look, she simply pushes open the door and gathers her coat more tightly around her body. She picks her way down the steps to the back garden, slick with moss, and waves her hands until the lights flick on, illuminating the path to the garage.

"Sirius taught me and Harry to drive in this car. I'm still on the insurance. We used to split the journey whenever we drove up to the Fringe to see the twins perform. Neither of us trusted Ron not to fall asleep at the wheel."

"Wasn't your own father a bit put out? Not that I'd know, of course, but that's supposed to be a fairly important bonding experience."

"I assume he would be, if he had any idea who I was. Early onset dementia."

Pressing a fob on the key ring she turns to watch the door lift, revealing a motorbike nestled under a protective cover, and her beloved, decrepit little car.

Malfoy's voice is more gentle than she's become accustomed to when he says, "What a piece of shit. In this rain, we'll be lucky to make it onto the road alive."

"This is England. Buck up, it’s practically a drizzle for us. I wouldn't be saying any prayers yet."

She jerks her head towards the passenger door.

"Get in, then."

* * *

"It's closed, Granger, you were wrong, and this place is creepy as fuck. I vote we let Potter find him."

Ignoring his words, she tugs open the driver's side door, grabbing her bag from where it sits at Draco's feet. Once outside she hurries towards the gate, jostling the chain and padlock holding it closed, Malfoy only moments behind her.

"Harry is very well practised at hiding how drunk he really is. Years of stolen beers at family functions. If Ginny has any sense she'll have taken him home to Luna and a bottle of water-"

"Thank fuck someone finally brought that up.” Something akin to a laugh passes between them. “Please fucking explain to me how that works, every time it comes up in conversation my mother just says 'Only Sirius Black's son,' and changes the subject."

"Harry and Ginny broke up when he left for Scotland, and she got together with Luna. Twelve months of abject misery later he drove through the night and turned up on her parents' doorstep at the crack of dawn.” She turns to him, pulling a face. “Molly was delighted, of course, she's never forgiven either of us for Ron and I breaking up. When she went to get Ginny out of bed she found Luna standing outside the loo wearing nothing but one of Ginny's netball jerseys, brushing her teeth.”

Malfoy raises his eyebrows, an amused smirk quickly disappearing from his face as he almost slips in the slick mud.

“The pair of them moved to Manchester together and Ginny told Harry that if he wanted to start seeing the pair of them long distance, they'd make it work. But she wouldn't give up Luna. At first he thought he wouldn't want to share, but it's not like that for them."

She scans the tall ornate fencing which encompasses the cemetery.

"We'll have to go round the side, the fence is much lower over by the tree line, he must have hopped it."

"This is trespassing, Granger, if he's in there let's just leave him be until morning."

She takes a step toward him and hisses, "He is getting married whether he likes it or not. I'm not having him spend the night before his wedding in a graveyard!"

The cemetery is small, and within minutes they breach the tree line, when Hermione stops dead in her tracks.

"I see him."

"It's pitch black, I can't see a fucking thing," he mutters, reaching out to hold on to her arm as he steps over a fallen log.

"What, mummy never made you eat your carrots?"

"Carrots are for plebs, Granger, I'm French, remember? If you can't cook something in its own bodily fluids you shouldn't be cooking it at all."

She reaches a handout, pointing towards a tall marble headstone topped with wilting flowers, sodden petals plastered over the names. To where Sirius kneels, hands pressed to the dirt, cloaked in a heavy coat that looks out of place paired with his ripped jeans and heavy boots.

To where a taller man stands beside him, hair dripping, with his hand on Sirius' shoulder.

Hermione digs in her pocket, smoothing her thumb across the screen of her phone which lights up in a rainbow, smeared with water.

A moment later the man beside Sirius does the same.

Remus' voice is calm when he says, "Hello, Hermione."

"I'll tell everyone you'll get him home safely. Look left."

She waves, a small smile on her face, and takes Draco's arm as she turns to leave.

"Remus told me Sirius wanted Harry for his best man,” she murmurs. “If things had turned out differently it would have been James, but Remus won that one. Regulus worked bloody hard with his physio so he could stand up there with his brother. Don't tell your cousin I said that. We can't afford any more drama, and a Black brothers screaming match is sure to lower the tone of the day. Andromeda was desperate to make sure there were no leather jackets involved."

* * *

"It's tradition for bridesmaids to dance with the best man, and it looks like young Harry has his hands full."

Hermione smirks, tearing her gaze away from the centre of the dance floor where Harry spins Ginny along his arm, only for her to be caught, laughing delightedly, by Luna.

"We're not really bridesmaids. There's no _bride._ Sirius just wanted to make me uncomfortable in this ludicrous dress."

A slow smile spreads across Regulus' face.

"I believe my baby cousin quite likes the look of that ludicrous dress."

When Hermione frowns, he laughs and moves to set his crutches against the table.

"Come along, if we're truly lucky Remus will cry again and someone will actually manage to get it on camera."

She takes his hand, allowing herself to be led near where Sirius and Remus are dancing practically cheek to cheek, though Regulus is careful not to get too close, lest they overhear what Remus is whispering in his new husband's ear.

"I can't imagine his mother will be much of a problem. She's a snob, of course, she's a Black, but you come highly recommended by the entire family. Not to mention the fact Sirius did everything but take out an ad in the newspaper when you got into Cambridge."

With her nose in the air, Hermione grits out.

"Regulus, I have no idea what you're talking about."

At that she looks down, carefully concentrating on their little box step. She's never been graceful.

"Don't tell me you're going to limit yourself to Weasleys for the rest of your life. William is the only one I can stomach-"

"What, because he fills your pockets? Just because he's an investment banker doesn't mean he's some great catch, and he's still in love with Fleur, no matter what her divorce lawyer says."

"Don't change the subject, darling, you're awfully transparent."

He lets go of her waist, presumably gesturing to a waiter for another glass of champagne.

"I think that's quite enough dancing for me. But for you, Miss Granger, I think a younger partner may be in order- good evening, Draco."

"Regulus, Granger." He inclines his head, brushes a hand over his suit jacket, she is sure that the watch glinting on his wrist alone is worth more than the entire contents of her flat. On his lapel, bright as a drop of blood against the deep blue of his suit, is a ribbon, a favour sported by almost everyone in the room.

"Hermione was just asking me if all Black men were so light on their, well, not feet, in my case. I think you had best defend our reputation, cousin."

"I would be delighted," Draco replies, and the smile he turns on her has a blush rising in her cheeks.

Their steps are slow, simple, and the touch of his hand on her waist is feather-light, though where their hands join it feels like her skin is on fire.

She prays, silently, that her hands are not as clammy as she fears.

“Did you enjoy the cake?” She asks brightly. “I’m sick of vanilla sponge at weddings, I think chocolate was an inspired choice.”

“I try to minimise my contact with chocolate covered children as much as possible.”

Faltering, she glances around to see whether Harry is within arm’s reach.

"Lovely ceremony, wasn't it," she supplies.

"Can't say I cared for the accompaniment," he says, eyes trained above her head.

"Sirius has a rather alternative view of what constitutes a love song."

"Sexual Healing is not a love song," he scoffs.

Hermione frowns.

"Remus thought it was funny."

"Yes, well," he replies, his mouth pursed.

“Yes, what?” 

“Nothing. I suppose everyone’s entitled to their own sense of humour, though my cousin’s so often ends up in the toilet.”

"I think I'd like to stop dancing now," she says, pulling her hand from his grip.

"No, wait, I'm-"

"-a snob. Yes, I've realised that. Maybe the sooner you get back to France the better," she grits out, hands on her hips.

"What? I haven't lived in France since I was- that's not the point." He drags a hand through his hair. "My agency has a London branch, and my mother wants to be closer to the family. I'm thinking about getting a flat here, and I was wondering, just, if I did, would you maybe consider going out. At some point, you know, with me."

His eyes are wide, his pale skin splotched with patches of red that extend the full way down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his crisp white shirt.

"That might be... nice."

* * *

Sirius lifts his head from a freshly lit cigarette, offering it across the steps to where his brother reclines on the damp concrete.

"How the fuck did it take him so long to pluck up the courage? He's a bloody model-"

"The way Narcissa tells it, beyond making eyes at a camera he's entirely useless, especially with women. The last one chucked him for being utterly spineless. He was besotted with her, apparently it was quite pathetic."

“He’s a Black, where did that come from? Obviously, he has excellent genes.”

“I’m sorry, you met your husband when you were what age? You let him think you were straight for how long?”

Sirius pauses, scowling.

“Shut up, Reg.”


End file.
